


Changes

by Ifwecansparkle



Category: Warm Bodies - All Media Types
Genre: David Bowie - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ifwecansparkle/pseuds/Ifwecansparkle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julie finds a flaw in R's record collection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changes

**Author's Note:**

> If you give me enough time I will write a fic about every one of my fandom's relationships with David Bowie. 
> 
> R has a vinyl collection. This one was inevitable. 
> 
> Uh. This fic references the book and the prequel a little bit.

"R?" Julie's voice cuts through his thoughts and he glances up from the book he's puzzling through--a brief, kid-sized chapter book that he's been working on all day. Not everything comes back instantly, and this miniature minefield of words has been enthralling and frustrating him in turns for quite some time. He isn't quite content with being relegated to whatever elementary school fodder has survived the carnage of the past years, but the novelty of letters arranging themselves into discernible words under his eyes hasn't worn away yet.

"Yes?" He always avoids guttural and noncommittal "hmmm"s when responding, because they remind him of things he would rather not remember, and they stick in his throat like mouthfuls of fatty flesh that he doesn't like to remember either. He blinks up from the page and sees Julie thumbing through his collection of vinyl. He has managed a prodigious stash over the years--they weren't the sort of things that looters went after in the rubble of ruined lives, so they were an easy target for his innocent thievery. 

"You don't have any David Bowie," she accuses, in a tone that makes that sound significant. 

Her frowns at her, perplexed.

"You don't know who David Bowie is?" 

"No," All things considered, the Apocalypse wasn't a time to pick and choose which music you listened to, and although he had his preferences, he normally made his decisions based on the aesthetic quality of the cardboard cover. Up until recently the names had meant nothing to him.

"Geeze, R," she laughed affectionately and abandoned her search to come and perch on the arm of the chair he was inhabiting. Her face turned pensive and she added quietly, "I guess it's not your fault. He got pretty controversial for a while."

"Really? What did he do?" He knows that he is stepping into a conversation about Before, and he approaches it hesitantly. But there is the irritated feeling of not knowing something itching at the back of his brain, and he is struggling to remember if another version of him knew who David Bowie was, so he presses on.

"There was a lot of end of the world type stuff," she said with a shrug. "I mean, it was old music, really old, but nobody wanted to listen to it after a while. My dad and I went to a supermarket one time, back when there were supermarkets, and they actually had a radio station playing. This song was playing, about the world ending and people crying and my dad's face got really--hard, like even our music was attacking us. Later on, there was a ban on David Bowie," she laughs at the memory. "Think about that, we're all dying and starving and living in glorified shantytowns and trying to find new ways to jump start the world, and they try to ban what music we listen to, just like they try to ban everything else," she kicks her heels against the chair, and then swings into a cross-legged position, her tiny body balancing expertly on the narrow space.   
He stares her down, because these stories never end there. He is not disappointed.

"His voice was just--" she paused and thought hard. "I heard him singing that song and he sounded like he could have cried, and it felt really...real, you know?" She glances at him for input, graciously ignoring the fact that he probably doesn't know.

He nods.

"Anyways, you could find music if you knew how. When I was eleven I found an iPod on a dead girl, and there was a best of album on there or something," she pulls the fabled device out of her pocket. It is like everything else these days: a device made for enjoyment, but looking like a war memento.

R sighs and makes wrinkles his nose at the device, and has half of the phrase "I don't like iPods," out of his mouth before she shushes him and tells him not to be a know-it-all, with a laugh just behind her voice. She plugs in the device and music--less rich than vinyl, he stubbornly wants to remind her--fills the room.

Pushing through the market square  
So many mothers sighing  
News had just come over  
We had five years left to cry in  
News guy wept and told us  
Earth was really dying  
Cried so much his face was wet  
So I knew he was not lying  
And I heard--

R drops his book and jerks forward to stop the music. It's the kind of introspective, melancholy embrace of reality that he can see Julie loving, but the past emanates too strongly from those words, and when he turns to her, his eyes are filled with panic. "I don't like it," he half-whispers with a desperation he hopes she understands. The apology shows in her face, but instead of speaking she changes the song.

Turn and face the strange  
Ch-ch-changes  
Don't want to be a richer man  
Ch-ch-ch-changes  
Turn and face the strange   
Ch-ch-changes   
Just gonna have to be a different man  
Time may change me  
But I can't trace time.

As he listens he relaxes into the words. These don't frighten him or remind him of the past. They remind him of the future. He closes his eyes and rests his head against Julie's arm as the music plays.

And these children that you spit on  
As they try to change their world  
They're immune to your consultations  
They're quite aware of what they're going through.

They listen to the whole album, and somewhere near the end he decides that he doesn't hate iPods so much after all.


End file.
